


Bruised

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Post-TLJ, Self-Harm, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: "Those bruises," Ren says. "I didn't give you those."Hux can't tell if that's supposed to be a statement or a question.





	Bruised

They meet each other in the passageways of the Finalizer and, without thinking, both of them pause. Hux’s back is straight, his gloved hands folded behind his back. Ren’s eyes are covered by his mask, and as much as Hux wishes he could see them — could read Ren’s childish, open face like a book — he’s grown accustomed to getting along without that view.

Still, he knows what Ren is staring at. His cheek burns, a large swathe of it stinging under Ren’s gaze.

“Those bruises,” Ren says. His voice is low and modulated. Hux’s spine stiffens at the sound of it. “I didn’t give you those.”

With Ren’s voice modifier, he can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. He chooses to treat it as a question.

“They didn’t come from nothing,” Hux sneers. He can feel his officers watching from behind and he itches to turn, to see the expressions on their faces, to gauge their reactions — who do they believe? What are they thinking? But years of training prevent him from giving into that urge.

And eventually, without saying another word, Ren sweeps past him. Hux continues the long watch to the bridge, unconcerned.

But Ren was right. He didn’t give Hux these bruises.

* * *

The glass in Hux’s refresher is warped and water-stained; the reflection staring back at him is spotty. But it’s still him; he can see the slightly diminished copper of his hair, the pale blur of his eyes, the livid brownish smear of a bruise on his cheek. It spreads over his cheekbone in both directions — to the corner of his eye, stretching over to his ear. Thin trails of it linger like shadows at the line of his jaw.

Yesterday, Ren Force-choked him again. There are faint bruises on his throat from that, barely visible. Yesterday, Ren threw Hux against the wall. It left him with aching ribs and a mild limp from where his knee cracked against the floor.

But Ren never touched his face.

Hux tugs his leather gloves off his hands; his fingers are thin and pale and seem unfamiliar in the harsh light of the refresher. They tremble as he raises them to his cheek and runs his fingertips over the bruise, from one end of it to the other. His knuckles, he notes with grim satisfaction, are unblemished. The skin over them is white and whole.

No scrapes. No blood. Just one large, unseemly bruise. Just the stares of his officers, the troopers — they see him and no matter how he looks, they think they know where to place the blame. If his uneven, painful gait is Ren’s fault, surely the split lip is, too. If his crooked, healing nose is from a head-slam straight into a console in the boardroom, surely his black eye comes from the same source.

No one asks him where the bruises come from. No concerned ranking officer pulls Hux into a private room to ask if he’s okay — and of course, there’s no one higher-ranking than Hux anymore, anyway.

With Ren as Supreme Leader, Hux monitors himself.

* * *

He feels it that night, during the rest cycle, when it seems everyone onboard the Finalizer is asleep except for Hux. He sits at his desk in full uniform, uncomfortable but relishing every part of it. The heaviness of his eyelids — the emptiness of his stomach — the stiff ache that pervades his entire body, part of it coming from his Force-inflicted injuries, part of it coming staying awake so long, standing and sitting so rigidly, allowing himself to remove not a single item of his uniform.

He feels flushed and jittery from too much caf earlier in the night. He clutches the datapad too tightly in his hands, reading and re-reading the report from a crystal mine on Ilum. Figures dance before his eyes — damages from a recent off-planet skirmish with smugglers, funds needed for food, negotiations with the local government over their cut off the profit — and then it happens.

A heavy pressure in the back of his mind. A feeling like strong fingertips pressing right into his brain.

Ren. Checking on him.

The realization floods Hux with an involuntary, unstoppable wave of revulsion — he quashes it almost as soon as it comes and instead focuses on his irritation, directing it as best he can at Kylo Ren. He’s unsure if this works or not — if Ren can pick up on his emotions when he invades Hux’s mind like this, or if he can see what Hux is thinking, or if he can see right through Hux’s eyes.

The pressure doesn’t lessen, and eventually Hux resolves to ignore it and continue with his work. But the concentration which came to him so easily a moment ago is now completely gone, and in its place is a series of images he tries to quell.

Hux, sitting on the edge of his bed with dark circles under his eyes, restless, sleepless, his throat aching and swollen from the Force.

Hux’s hand tightening into a fist; Hux examining his own knuckles.

The numbing burst of light when that fist collides with his face; the noise it makes in the silence of Hux’s room; the ache it leaves on his face, painful but not enough. He knows it’s not enough. He draws back his fist and hits himself again — again — again, harder and harder and refusing to flinch from himself, until his whole face feels like it’s burning.

That’ll leave a mark, he knows it will. Somehow, he can always tell.

 _Enough,_ Hux thinks, and the pressure in his mind coils back a little in response. _Enough. Leave me be._

Ren hesitates, and then withdraws entirely. Hux stares down at his datapad, still unable to drum up his earlier concentration. Unable to drum up even the slightest hint of satisfaction for driving Ren away.

The numbers won’t come back. All that remains is his memory of that night — the strange numbness that possessed him, that drove him to punch himself in the face like a child throwing a self-destructive tantrum.

He presses that fist against his bruise again, feels the leather creaking against his skin. He closes his eyes.

* * *

When he goes to sleep, Hux removes his uniform and stands before the bed in his undergarments, staring down at the smooth sheets, folded into hospital corners the way he learned as a child. He rubs his chin, feels the tender ache when his fingers brush against even the slightest discoloration.

He turns back to his closet, where tomorrow’s clothes hang pressed and wrinkle-free alongside his greatcoat. Hux doesn’t allow himself to think; he operates on instinct only. He slips the greatcoat from its hanger and pulls it over his shoulders, tucks his arms into the sleeves, does the buttons up and collapses into bed.

He pulls his flimsy, standard-issue blanket over his head and pulls the greatcoat tight around him, curled into a ball. Eyes shut, still jittery from the caf, he feels that presence in his mind again.

 _Why?_ it asks him in Kylo Ren’s voice, as clear as day.

Hux lets out a breath slowly, allowing it to whistle through his teeth. He pretends not to hear; he doesn’t try to disassemble, to scatter his thoughts, to pull the wool over Ren’s eyes. Instead, he just keeps his eyes closed and tries to sleep.

He can feel Ren inside him, picking through Hux’s mind. His mute, grey-toned emotions; his petty memories from today; the swirl of numbers and blueprints in his head, the blur of his officers all becoming one vague voice, one indistinguishable face, one garbled name.

And then, before he can fall asleep, he feels a coldness spread over his aching ribs, over his injured knee. It spreads over his body until it reaches the bruise.

Ren doesn’t ask why again.


End file.
